Incubation
by Saphyr88
Summary: London, June 1917. WW1. Having moved out of the Sanctuary, Nikola receives an unexpected guest. An intimate vignette set in the months following Vienna in Springtime.


_**Incubation: a period of time between exposure to a pathogenic organism, chemical or radiation, and the appearance of symptoms.**_

**London, June 1917**

Nikola closed the door to his hotel room and headed straight for the bottle of Bordeaux which that fabulous concierge had somehow managed to obtain. The Ritz certainly lived up to its reputation – despite the shortages it felt positively decadent beside the rest of the world, and Nikola was more than appreciative of the separate bathroom, complete with indoor plumbing. They were so desperate for guests he'd gotten the suite at a complete bargain, and the occasional game of billiards, or cards, downstairs helped put enough in his pocket to keep up the illusion that he could actually pay his arrears. He would… eventually… he was just temporarily short of liquid capital at the moment. They didn't need to know he was completely broke – one of the _many_ reasons he hadn't used his real name at the desk.

He poured out the deliciously fragrant wine and savoured the smell. Helen had long-since threatened to shoot him where it hurt if she caught him with another bottle of wine from her own invaluable cellar, and he had – prudently – decided not to test her resolve on the matter. Things had been getting too intense there anyway: the Russian Banshee almost bringing the entire house down during another nightmare had merely been the final straw. Not that he'd been sleeping at the time, but that was beside the point – the Sanctuary was getting _far_ too crowded, and besides… it wasn't even _his_ home.

Alright… there may have been another reason for his growing sense of claustrophobia.

She'd only asked about it the other day… why he'd moved out. Wandering into the lab, where he'd long-since moved on from the Sanctuary's generators, to an electrotherapy treatment for one of the new intakes. He could tell that she didn't entirely believe his explanation, that she knew there was more to it than he claimed, but the reason she didn't press the issue was probably the same, _real,_ reason he had left in the first place. Things were becoming… awkward, between them.

It was Vienna, or rather, the memory of it lingering on, impossible to forget. He wasn't even sure he wanted to – but it was hard not to tease and flirt _more_ often. As if to stop, to reign back and be more serious would be admitting it: admitting that it _had_ meant something to him. That his feelings for her were as something _more_ than just a friend or a comrade at arms. And she had stepped back into that game, the banter, like he'd thrown her a lifeline but… every so often he'd started pushing it just that step too far. Succumbing to a reckless, impetuous urge to test the boundaries they'd so carefully redrawn.

He realised he was curious. Part of him wanted to know. Whether she felt even the slightest portion of what he did for her. Whether there had been more behind… that afternoon than a physical need, the comfort of being close while the rest of the world just span out of all control. But she was as impossible as a Sphinx, and he too afraid of losing her forever to push for whatever truth might lie there.

It was maddening. And still… he hadn't left London.

He should have. He reasoned that it was to carry on his research into his ancestor's legacy, with the help of Helen's impressive library. The contents of the papers he'd rescued from Reitler's secret office had already proven quite illuminating. To the rest of the world, he insisted it was to help his friends, find a way to win this vicious war… which wasn't a lie – he _was_. In the quietest hours of the night though, he could be honest with himself. She was more than _part_ of the reason he wasn't looking out at a New York skyline.

Opening the window he settled in his seat, soaking in the sound of the rain falling onto pavements, sloshed by the occasional automobile, the swish and clip of a single horse-drawn cart making its way home. It was a weeknight, the West End was practically dead with the war on anyway, but even so, the heart of London – much like New York – never completely slept. The artificial glow of the street below made the buildings opposite a strange, almost eerie colour. Even the clouds overhead seemed ominously fiery, and the air drifting against the curtains was cool for summer, but welcome.

The temperature had dropped like a stone after the torrential storm a week ago, flooding some of the Underground lines and making everybody even more miserable – if that was possible. Except Tesla. He'd gone up to the Sanctuary roof to watch it, crackling across the sky – pure, wild electricity thundering against the pounding rain. It wasn't the same as New York, where the skyscrapers acted like the most impressive church spires, and strong bolts reflected off the watery windows in brilliant hues. Here, it spread across the skies, flickering timidly. When it struck, it was like fine cracks in paint, deadly thin slithers reaching out, but even so – better the chill of a storm, than the oppressive heat of a muggy, urban summer.

Sequestering himself in a lab all day, Nikola had always preferred a bit of fresh air when he finally left it. He found it afforded a certain clarity to the day, allowed him to clear his thoughts, relax – nothing like the calm of a perfect storm to put it all into perspective.

A knock on his door disrupted that tranquillity like a hammer between the eyes, snapping Nikola completely onto alert. He frowned, listening closely for any sign that whoever stood on the other side was an enemy, or worse, another government agent come to lure him into some kind of covert operation in Eastern Europe. Who else would it be at this hour? But as he put his glass down on the small table beside his seat, steadily approaching with his vampire sight and vampire hearing tuned-in, he started to doubt those initial presumptions.

The singular heartbeat was lightly accelerated, their breathing ragged – not from exertion, but anxiety. He frowned inquisitively, losing his talons and pitch-black eyes, his fangs shrinking back as he reached to open the door.

"_Helen_?!"

Something was wrong. Why hadn't she called ahead? She was putting on that reassuring smile, but it didn't meet her eyes.

"Is everyth-"

"I'm, fine. Nikola," she cut off, and he didn't believe her for a moment, "Thank you. Might I come in?"

"Er… of course," he stepped back and let her in, half expecting there to be someone following her down the corridor, but there was no one. Closing the door he watched her in the dim light of his room, with the slightest enquiring bend to his brow. She spoke before he could ask.

"Ah," she smiled to herself, looking around, "I see the Ritz continues to live up to its reputation." Then she spied the open bottle sat on the sideboard and, almost out of habit, wandered over to inspect it. She evidently approved.

"Care for a glass?" he ventured, not quite sure why she was here without some kind of emergency hot on her heels, "Or… is this just a flying visit?"

She didn't look at him, just carried on staring at the label, as if she wasn't sure herself. "Thank you," she managed abruptly, realising she'd been silent too long. She even hazarded a half-smile, which again, barely met her pupils. "I think I will."

Swallowing tightly Nikola reached for a spare glass from the sideboard, stepping over to lift the bottle from her hands and pour it out. His gaze never really left her, trying to fathom what was going on, why she was here, but she backed away with a sigh, cutting him off from whatever had disturbed her enough to be here now. She was antsy, incapable of being still – her hands itching for something to do, her lips pressing together as if there was something she wanted to get off her chest.

"It's a little late," he hazarded with a feigned level of indifference to the fact, handing her the full glass, "…for a social call."

She took it, meeting his eyes and looking away almost instantly, "Is it?" she asked, taking a sip as she ventured away, towards the chair at the window, "What's the time?"

"Quarter past three."

He didn't ask why she was awake – Helen always had plenty of things to keep her awake at night. The point was most of them didn't require her leaving the Sanctuary.

"Hm, God Nikola, why have you got the window open? It's so cold out there."

He picked up another chair, carrying both it and the bottle over to set them near his former post by the window. "It helps me think." He replied closely, picking up his own abandoned glass and sitting back down as casually as humanly possible, with that inquisitive sharpness to his eyes.

"At three in the morning?" she ignored the chair he'd brought over, leaning against the window and watching the rain slowing down. "You'd be better off sleeping," she added distantly.

Nikola wasn't sure what to say to that one – he knew she wasn't managing much of that herself, but unlike Helen, he had _always_ slept very little. He sighed, "What dreams may come…"

She gave him that flat, unimpressed look for the Shakespeare but she didn't roll her eyes, as he'd expected her to. She turned away, her lips twisting against each other as if he'd hit a nerve.

"…if you expected me to be sleeping then what was so important as to wake me up?"

"Huh," she half-laughed, a wry heavy sound, even as she became more animated, her expression almost waking up with the incoming retort, "I said you'd be _better off_ sleeping, not that I expected you to be." She glanced over to him then, realised he had asked with nothing but complete and utter sincerity. He wanted an answer, some kind of explanation… "I…" she stumbled, unable to put it into words, "understand the treatment you've been working on for Sasha is almost ready for testing." She fended off the inevitable, taking another gulp of wine, but he couldn't bring himself to play along.

"Oh sure, you came all the way over to Piccadilly at three in the morning to discuss regulating the molecular structure of the Russian Taffy-man."

She snapped a scowl at him, but was met with his own peevish resolve – a dare. To prove him right by making a mountain out of a mole hill.

"I was merely making conversation," she replied coolly, hiding the hint of vulnerability in another swig of her glass. She was getting though it _rather_ quickly.

"Aha, and I'm Father Christmas."

She flinched at the flat, snarky tone, still avoiding his gaze, still tearing her way through the wine. She should have been telling him off, fighting back.

"Helen…" he sighed after a time, somewhat regretting the sarcastic approach but just as unable to reach over to her and show it.

He left such a pause that she looked at him, eventually. There was a conflict within her eyes, frustrating her no end, disrupting the certainty that usually lay there – the control.

"Come on. If there's no life-and-death emergency…" he reasoned sensibly, without a sneer or a leer, "_tell me_ what's going on."

She didn't.

She shook her head ever so slightly, focusing somewhere in the region of his own wine glass, but seeing only her own thoughts. Her brow furrowed, trying to make sense of something and failing, her lips half-parted, unable to form the words. Until she shook her head again, in resignation, finding some deeper strength to speak from, "It's just…" she took a deep breath and let it out, "today was a day… I would really rather forget." Her features crumpled a little further at the truth of what she was thinking, but she held it all together, just like she always did. "There are a lot of things, I wish I could…"

Nikola knew precisely what she meant – and it wasn't just the mission she'd come back from earlier which had, by all accounts, been a rough ride. It was everything. Everything they – _she_ – had lived through and endured. He stood up, taking her nearly empty glass from her hands, and looking into those open eyes, the sharp pain in them that made his chest ache. Her hurt expression dissolved a little at his actions, abated by an inquiring spark that made him second-guess himself for a moment. He wanted to put her glass down beside his own and embrace her, let her have some physical comfort against the world – however paltry and platonic it might be, but… was that what she needed, or what _he_ wanted?

Instead he picked up the bottle by their side, and topped up her glass, watching her over the liquid being poured in the short gap between them. She was slow to wrap her fingers around it as he handed it back, watching him, so carefully it made his gut twist into knots. As if she knew – that it hadn't been what he was going to do. As if she were stumped by the shift, and searching for the reason why.

Her lips moved impulsively to his, a free hand reaching up to his head and holding him to her. As if he could pull away. Nikola was too surprised to even kiss back, rigid with the fear that she would retract the move as soon as it was over, play it off as a meaningless whim. Their moment in the Viennese rain was still fresh – had she even meant to? To press her lips against his so insistently?

The wave of panic was as immobilising as the amazement, the nascent hope. Then his brain kicked in, like a switch for a light bulb, with a sharp accompanying shot of adrenaline – this could be his only chance, and he was making her do all the work? Moving his lips back against hers in sudden response the friction made his head spin, the brush of flesh too delicious to waste as he automatically grabbed for her arm, keeping her near.

When they pulled back breathily, everything was blurred, fogged. He closed his eyes against the disorientation, savouring it, the scent of her – all medicine and fragrant soap, the slightest dash of perfume and wine – filling his head._ Oh God, what if that was all… wrong… _hethought, self-doubt soon creeping in behind the rush. She wasn't saying anything, or doing anything. Had he crossed the line? He shouldn't have taken advantage of her like that, played against a moment of weakness. Surely that's all it was?

"I'm… s-sorry, Helen," he managed, barely glancing her way – as if the sight would strike him down. He started pulling away, shifting to regain his space but she stopped him, physically stopped him, grabbing his arm.

"Don't be," the words were so quiet he could've missed it, but they struck him hard, snapping his attention onto her with a breathless, incredulous prayer.

Helen put her glass down, studying him with this hesitant, searching look. She hadn't come here for this, hadn't travelled half-way across London with the intention of asking _this_ of him – but then he'd looked at her like that and… Vienna had come flooding back. Like it did time after inconvenient time: when she was drinking tea, handling vials of chemicals, washing her hands after surgery… when she was lying in bed. Sometimes she had merely looked at him, and remembered that illusive dream: a dream of something that would make all the suffering, and pain just… fade, pale into insignificance. If only for a moment, if only for an hour. The question of 'what if' – unhappy with weeks of being left unanswered – had played out in her imagination, on the edge of her consciousness, constantly, but now the answer seemed to be right there within her grasp.

She kissed him again, hungrier than before, pulling herself against his body until he instinctively wrapped his arms around her.

This was different to before, and so much more – the feel of her hair, the shape of her curves, fitting against him. The way her hand pressed against his back, those encouraging lips, unabashedly leeching out the want within her skin. It burned through his nerves. Every deliberate move stronger than before – more decisive – and all he could think about was prizing away that fabric to feel her naked flesh against his. To press his fingers to her sex and feel slickened skin instead of pale, dampened cotton. To hear that moan pass her lips again, as she started to shudder.

God what was this woman doing to him? He could already feel himself swell, his body betraying him. Gingerly he pulled away, desperate not to let this go any further if she wasn't in her right mind which, clearly, if this wasn't a dream – she _wasn't_.

"Helen…" he tried.

Her breathing was heavy, her heart thudding louder than his own, "Please, Nikola…"

He knew what she wanted, and he could barely process it. Not even when she kissed his cheek, or tried to bring herself flush against him again. He pulled sheepishly back, not too far, just enough not to embarrass himself with his evident arousal when she finally came to her senses. He chuckled somewhat bitterly to himself, oh how he wished that this was actually happening but…

"You don't-"

"I **do**, Nikola," she cut him off, breathing closely, so closely he could count the lashes on her lowered eyes. Watch the determination in those oceanic irises as they rose up and fixed him there, paralysed by all the thousands of reasons he should object.

Because what she needs is the intimacy, a quick roll in the hay – not him. Not love. Just release.

"I know what I'm-" she tried again, closing her eyes against the frustration in her veins. Her voice grew softer, heavier as she leaned in, whispering in his ear, "I _need_ this," her hands wandered around his torso, fingers toying beneath the bottom of his waistcoat, the top of his trousers, "_please_."

The note of desperation in that last that made his spine tingle and he couldn't pull away. Not with her right there in front of him, touching him, _pleading_. The warmth of her body tangible, her wonderful hands tentatively plucking at him like a violin – everything he'd ever… God if they never came this close again, if he turned her away now… he was damn sure it'd be the single biggest regret of his _entire_ existence. _Sranje_.

He pressed his mouth to hers in a flurry, burying his fingers in her hair, pulling her in at the small of her back, as if it would merge them into one. She made a pleased sound that stirred his senses – her fingers running up the buttons on his waistcoat and undoing them. He couldn't draw breath, gasping between lips that he couldn't relinquish, growing harder than he had since… since...

Okay fine, it had been a few years since he'd… _been_ with a woman. In the technical sense. Sex was messy, in every possible way, abstinence a necessary evil: the only surety against the complications of sharing yourself so intimately. And then Vienna. And now the woman he admired most in this world, this unobtainable star in the heavens was pushing the sleeves of his jacket from his arms, and hurrying to undo the knot of his tie. His body was, naturally enough, responding like some over-sexed adolescent.

God, he wanted nothing more than to bury himself deep inside of her, to come into her warm core like some desperate wild thing. To feel her, all of her, before she realised what a bad idea this was, before she changed her mind. It would only be a matter of time, right? He couldn't help but feel it. Even as she helped him rid her of the jacket she was still wearing, as she threw her arms above her head so that he could pull off her lacy blouse in one fell sweep, revealing the corset and camisole beneath.

He burrowed into her neck with heated kisses, pulling her in, fondling those full breasts in a way he hadn't dared before – feeling the weight, the shape of them beneath his hands. Her fluttering pulse was so tantalising beneath the light dance of his tongue, the shift of her hips against him almost unbearable as he traced the edge of her underwear, pulling down the straps just enough to feel flesh. She gasped at his fingers tracing around bare nipple, pressing her lips against his temple as her hands searched for his body – running over his shirt, roaming across his abdomen as she pulled it free. His muscles flexed in an anticipatory thrust, his whole body lurching with the need – to have her naked on that bed, to hear her screaming his name.

He slid the crook of his finger into her waistband, tugging her towards the bed as they locked lips again, tasting each other. A strange sensation came over him as he fumbled for the button on her skirt and petticoat, the false memory of a golden forest – of having her like this and failing to cross the bar – making him falter. She helped him slip the buttons through their holes, her warm hands tracing against his own as the fabric slipped away. The determination in her eyes was heart-stopping as she made for his trousers. She gripped the top of them, vying for the buttons and brushing knowingly against the prominent bulge of his erection with a cunning twist to her mouth. He quivered at the sensation, the least suave moan imaginable leaving his throat as he desperately prized her hands away from his clothes half-undone.

If she wasn't careful he'd explode, right then and there, with her lips tracing patterns on his neck, and her breasts pressing against him. He shuddered against her, sweeping his hands across her corseted hips to the exposed flesh of her thighs, and making her moan indulgently with the gentle caress.

Taking her weight in his arms he picked her up, hoisting her backside high enough to feel his hard length against her kickers, to wrap her legs around him at the waist.

She gasped softly at the pressure of him nestled between her legs, her heavy-lidded gaze travelling lustfully from what she could feel, up the length of his body, to meet his eyes. He could've lost himself in that expression, barely aware of Helen's hands: unbuttoning, pulling off his shirt as he gingerly placed her down upon the bed. Her torso curled towards him – all pale creamy skin, cotton and lace as she attacked his clothes, trying to tug his undershirt up his body. He had to commit this to memory. Every movement, every sound and texture. It was like Halley's Comet. The sort of phenomenon you were lucky to see once in a lifetime, and were sure to never see again. But his baser instincts were strong, stronger than he'd ever known. He throbbed, ached, as she yanked away his upper clothes, her eyes roving across his naked torso, but still he savoured the pain – tried his damndest to make this moment last.

Running the tip of his nose against her neck, he inhaled, as if he could already smell blood, kissing her there with as much diligence as he had her mouth. The temptation to bite was far greater now, with her legs around him, with that comprehending moan slipping through her lips as his teeth grazed the pulse-point, and his fingers snapped loose her garter belts. He could feel her hands start to tighten against him, to clench in anticipation of having to pry him off of her and yet not moving a damn inch towards doing so. Perhaps she was stunned by the lush feel of his hand smoothing up her inner thigh?

He tugged at the fabric shielding her crotch with an almost violent need, tearing himself away from biting into that inviting artery, and she made a hard 'ah' in response that made his body tremble eagerly. Desperately he fought against the sudden lust – shifting further down her body. She started to attack her own corset in the space formed by his parting, struggling to focus as he pulled down her underwear, along with her stockings, tickling her legs with a cruel draw of fingertips against her skin. Her legs – they went on forever – he kissed the ankle as he undid her shoes, as he dragged himself apart to get rid of his own footwear – which he had yet to dispose of.

When he looked back at her, _in flagrante_ and half-corseted, he forgot how to breathe. How to think. The tousled locks that fell over her shoulder, the flush of her skin, those moist, parted lips as she struggled to loosen the ties – words failed, she was just… he needed to taste her, have her, be inside of her. _Now_. The slide of her tongue against his was debilitating, the press of fingers into skin, the heat of her body. She was intoxicating. Any chance of moderation, of control, was fast slipping, his hands finding the warm curve of her backside, the soft parting of her legs. One thought kept ringing in his head: he wasn't going to last five seconds if he gave into his body's subtle juts towards her centre, if she so much as wrapped a hand around his shaft– and he was **not** going to let her only memory of him as a lover be _that_.

His fingers quickly edged around her centre with a hastily concocted plan, petting the mound of curls above her apex, down, nervily, to gently stroke across her sex. She made an inarticulate sound against his mouth, pleasantly surprised, by the sounds coming from low in her throat as he started to tease and rub against those sensitive nerves. "Um, Nikola," she moaned, letting herself pull away for air. God could not have devised a more encouraging sound. Nor a more encouraging sight than that of her twisting carnally against his sheets, arching her back until her head tipped back. He was transfixed, greedily soaking in her every movement.

Caressing her exposed breasts, presented so beautifully towards him, his other hand ventured a digit to penetrate her now slickened core. He closed his eyes for a moment, overcome, by the feel of that silky space – anticipating the way it would suck against his painfully hard cock, and devour him. He wanted it. Almost as desperately as he wanted to make her come, to etch this night upon her memory with the same ferocity as his own.

She'd long since ceased struggling with the cords at her abdomen, sinking into his ministrations, unable to coordinate her hands with the sensation building between her legs – but he needed to see her, all of her, naked. He wanted to see how every muscle flexed and tensed at his caress, watch the flicker in them as she came to her peak. That knot on her corset was tight however… the last one… For a single, heart stopping moment he withdrew his attentions, uncertain whether he could control his transformation under such a beautiful strain as this. Sharply growing one set of talons, he sliced through the offending string before willing his vampirism away again – his dark eyes shrinking back to their reassuring blue as he gazed up across her body. His hands tensed, resisting the urge to rip her camisole away, determined not to be distracted from his goal of ensuring her pleasure first – but as his fingers graced her clitoris again Helen whispered a torturous, almost painful, "_No_."

His insides dropped like a stone, everything brought to a terrifying halt as he suspected the worst. That he'd hurt her, that she'd come to her senses. He searched her expression, for some clue, some explanation as to what he'd done, but she sat up and brought her hands tenderly to his cheeks. Kissing him so slowly it could kill, burning through as she leant into him – until they were kneeling in front of each other. She grabbed his trousers, and he couldn't move – frozen between pride and need as she shoved them, and his undershorts, past hips, over buttocks, and his long, hard erection, in a jerky, abrasive move that stung in the most delicious way possible.

He tore the camisole over her head with little regard for her limbs, still attempting to finish the job. Barely holding on as he ground against her, as his cock stroked against the hot flesh of her thigh, and his hands searched every exposed part of her. The way she writhed, moaned, hungry for it, drove him crazy – the whisper of her moist sex suddenly all he could focus on, as she held him close.

"Nikola," she groaned in frustration, "please, just- mmph – oh."

Sliding into her was pure bliss, the slight resistance relenting suddenly, drawing him in, bit by bit, until he was sheathed to the hilt within her body. She was so tight – and it was euphoric, a pulse that floods up his spine and into every cell, a searing white light that blinds him, blots everything out – but her. She's a goddess. A queen. To him, she always has been.

The tightening of her legs around him reminds him to breathe, to withdraw, and when he does it's almost better than going in. He cannot stop himself, pinning her back against the bed with a frenetic, almost furious, pace. The gasping moans she makes sound almost startled by the strength of it, of each push of that ruddy, erect flesh into hers, burrowing deeper. He tries to slow down but he can't, she's too much. It's a compulsion, penetrating her, addictive, the feel of her body moving against his, shifting the angle of her hips – the ache was almost painful now – he couldn't possibly…

"Helen," he gasped against her. She pulled him closer, as if sensing his fear, "I…"

Foreheads pressed together he can feel himself starting to lose it, "I can't…" hurtling towards release, "I can't-" The words are swallowed up in a cry of unadulterated joy, as he surges inside of her: relief and gratification flowing victoriously through his limbs. By God it feels magnificent. Utterly glorious. The shake, the all-encompassing shudder as he reaches towards heaven, and melts within her.

Only it's over all too soon. Furtively he glances towards her, lying beneath him, before looking quickly away. Damn it. He hadn't meant to leave her on the edge. He can feel her body humming beneath his needy hands, the flex of her around his shaft still lodged inside of her – as if afraid to pull away. She was so close, her breathing, her heart pounding in his ears now that the rest of the world had gotten quieter.

She sighed in equal parts amazement and frustration, drawing her hands through his hair again. Dazed slightly, by the way that had just gone… the way her body was still calling out for more. Not just for satisfaction, but for satisfaction the way _his_ touch, his body, had promised. It had never felt quite like that before. Had it? She tried to recall, but her memory failed – short-circuited at the touch of Nikola's fingers, dancing over her clitoris once again. She could barely breathe, taking in the sight of him incredulously, her walls clenching reflexively at his touch and making him mirror her own heavy moan.

Still sensitive, he pulled out of her with a tender kiss, his heart strings playing a chord in him that felt almost unreal. As if this were a dream – as if she were permitting him to love her… God if only she was. His hands returned to their former occupation, exploring, despite his glorious exhaustion, studying every jaunt at his languid caress of her centre, with the same attentiveness as his experiments. Bringing a tongue to taste her breasts he teased at her nipple, until she was gasping, contorting in the somewhat restrictive space between them with a taut crescendo that rolled out in a vivid non-verbal cry. It would not have gone unheard – even at this hour – and the fact made Nikola grin uncontrollably, even if the sound _hadn't_ been in the shape of his name. He gave a smirk, which only widened at the sight of her wondrous, satisfied expression, as her hands drifted, bonelessly, to caress his face.

He didn't want her to thank him, as if he'd provided some kind of service, done her some kind of favour, but he could almost see the words starting to form. So he stole them from her, kissing her until she realised it was pointless to even try. So that when he pulled away and lay beside her, their bodies growing cold, all she did was nestle her head in the hollow beneath his.

Clinging loosely around his shoulders, she found herself on the edges of a natural sleep far deeper than she had managed in many, many years. He could feel it too, tugging him into unconsciousness. That happy exhaustion, the lullaby of her body, her presence, at his side. It was far too precious to last, a mere shell of what he longed for, but for now, for this moment… he was hers, and she was his – it was enough.

* * *

**Author's Note**: I must here acknowledge that this fic would not have existed if it were not for Chartreuseian's Celibacy (so hot – go read it!) and I wouldn't have posted it if I didn't think I had something to add to that awesome fanfic, or something slightly different to say (which I hope I did). So please Chart, take this as a compliment ;) But yeah, basically, this is how I reckon Helen and Nikola's first ever tryst went… or hereabouts. Originally I did intend for this to be the prelude to the next big fic **Influenza**, which is set about a year after this during the grip of the Spanish Influenza in WW1, and that's where the idea for the title came from.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own, nor lay any claim to Sanctuary or its characters, and hope its owners and the actors portraying them do not feel as if I've brought them into disrepute because that is certainly not my intention. (I just think they're really hot!)


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